


hush, my sweet. these tornadoes are for you

by handholding (hoesthetic)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: China, Ficlet, Introspection, Jeon Wonwoo-centric, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, References to Depression, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 04:23:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14845637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoesthetic/pseuds/handholding
Summary: the minutes don't stop but neither does the rain.





	hush, my sweet. these tornadoes are for you

**Author's Note:**

> the title from a primer for the small weird loves by richard siken

 

_**1.** _

 

wonwoo doesn’t have a story to tell.

even if it goes something like this, the light shining from the open window of the opposite building is red, the rain is hitting the ground violently, wonwoo is shaking on his balcony, and there’s a black cat. the cat is watching wonwoo across the space between the two apartment buildings, hiding beneath the fogged glass. the cat, potentially, could be dark grey or dark brown, but the red light makes it seem like jet black, so wonwoo thinks it’s black. it’s staring at him.

but that’s not a story worth of telling. the minutes don’t stop and the days don’t slow down, even if it isn’t a competition of speed.

black cats remind him of magic and big witchy hats, but also of bad luck. maybe he’d laugh at himself if it were a tiny bit more laughable, but wonwoo seems to collect things of bad luck. like a white lighter. in reality, it’s not really laughable or funny, because it ends there. the white lighter is the only thing. so it’s not worthy of telling, either.

odd quirks or strange habits are easily swallowed by the monotone rhythm of daily life.

with fast decision making, wonwoo steps forward and yanks his window open. it rains inside the balcony, the cat doesn’t move, and the minutes don’t stop.

  
  
**_2._ **

 

consider this; you’re in a strange country where you don’t speak the language. it’s busy and hectic when you prefer calm and quiet over the sounds of traffic and strangers pushing into your sides. you aren’t exactly sure why you live there, before you remember that you moved there, and now you’re supposed to figure out why you moved there. maybe to find yourself, maybe to get lost, maybe to find inspiration or maybe to lose it, if that makes any sense at all.

then, consider this; you’re in a strange bed with a strange man in a strange country, and your inner thighs ache.

wonwoo’s thighs are thin and clammy. but the thinner, the less clammy, the less sweaty or wet they can get. if the stranger had hands big enough, maybe they’d wrap completely around them and pull, and make him feel small and invisible when wonwoo just can’t fight it, thighs covered with big hands. but his hands are small, so it’s wishful thinking.

sex smells like sweat and bodily fluids—sex smells disgusting, is what it is. sex, in general, is a repulsive act no one is forcing him to do, but wonwoo isn’t sure if he wants to engage in it. he does, which is what matters. it feels good for a moment but he doubts it’s worth it.

it is, is the answer, because wonwoo is being overdramatic with a strangers tongue dipping into his hipbone and biting, but never breaking the skin. he doesn’t remember his name, and he isn’t even sure if he knows it. the apathy of meaningless hookups, it’s rather boring, because it doesn't hurt, it’s over quickly, and guilt, guilt, guilt, and dirt.

there’s nothing as off-putting as damp bedsheets that smell like sweat and cum, but that’s only later. now, strange, weird limbs intertwining, and a dull stretch, and the skin is sticky against other.

wonwoo can hear the ragged breath in his ear and the rain hitting the windows of his apartment.

  


**_3._ **

 

the flickering light of the corner store makes everything seem distant and dream-like. it’s one of those moments where reality seems off, just the tiniest bit, like shifted to the left a few centimeters. it’s not eerie, per se, but rather fascinating, almost comforting. a brief moment where wonwoo doesn’t feel real, where nothing is real except for the colourful packaging of groceries on the shelves. the radio is turned off, the cashier is probably half falling asleep, since it’s somewhere between two and three am.

surprisingly enough, it didn’t rain on his way to the store. it’s been pouring buckets, lately, but that’s how the climate works during the rainy season, and an umbrella is something wonwoo keeps in his backpack most of the time. or in his hand, when he can’t put it to the bag wet. he can’t count the times he has gotten his feet soaked.

wonwoo has read the labels of the colourful snacks multiple times now, with the small english fonts underneath them giving him an overall idea despite not knowing chinese. he reads them again, mouths the word _chocolate,_ then _milk,_ then _coconut._

he doesn’t want to go just yet, is the issue. it’s so much easier to exist in a small distorted space, to be just a stranger staring at snacks rather than jeon wonwoo, a man who… who…

wonwoo doesn’t have an answer for it.

he reaches out to grab a random box of something that has blueberries on its cover. the colour of the background is prussian blue. it’s not cold, it’s not warm, but the cardboard surface is smooth underneath his fingertips.

wonwoo walks to grab a milk tea. the glass bottle is cold against his palm.

 

**_3.5._ **

 

when wonwoo walks home, the weather smells like rain even when it doesn’t pour. it never really goes away, wonwoo has understood. even when it doesn’t rain, it’s going to, it’s building up in the clouds until the pressure is at its maximum, and then, he’ll drown.

  
_**4.** _  


the wooden handle of the paintbrush is scratchy against his palm. it doesn’t make a noise. the wind rattling his windows does, however. it’s not idyllic or a beautiful picture, the moment, but it is peaceful even with the thundering distress within his chest. it’s mostly weird, absurd, like an abstract piece of art—except it’s ugly. an ugly painting, the feeling in his chest, or the rain, the room.

the actual painting could be violent, it could be a field, it could be a person, or it could be nothing at all. wonwoo isn’t quite sure yet. it’s something like stress painting, but it’s not aggressive or mean. just delicate lines with the mint coloured acrylic paint.  

wonwoo prefers words over pictures, explanations over actions, but he doesn’t have a story to tell, still.

he doesn’t know what he is doing. there, in the strange city, feeling weird, feeling out of place, feeling distressed despite the slow beating of his heart, calm breaths and slow hand movements. wonwoo doesn’t know what he is painting, what he is writing, what he is thinking.

he supposes he is lonely. maybe, or something else along of those lines.

imagine this; your name is jeon wonwoo. you’re wonwoo. you don’t quite like being yourself, because being yourself means having the past you’ve had, having had known the people you’ve known. you don’t quite like being yourself, so you think moving (running away) to another country for a year will help that. it’s not like you’re escaping something tangible, like a person or a thing.

jeon wonwoo likes being alone. he likes quiet, he likes space, he likes the rain. he has got all of those things now. he can exist in peace, and yet, there’s something creeping on his skin like bugs, or eczema, maybe.

humans are social creatures and no one wants to be alone. while he could be an exception to the rule, he doubts that, because exceptions have stories to tell. he doesn’t. just another lousy, confusing painting, or another poem that doesn’t make sense. wonwoo supposes that doesn’t really matter that much at all.

  
**_5._ **  


wonwoo thinks in the laziest, sloppiest way post orgasm.

when things are hazy and clammy, gross and weird-smelling. when his cheeks feel warm, but not that blushing type, just flushed, and his lips feel sore and swollen no matter what has happened. and a dull taste in his mouth. worn out, tired, disgusted, guilty yet not quite, because there’s nothing to be guilty over.

looking up towards the roof, white with multiple, small bumps on it. he lifts his hand, as if he could reach it, but he can’t, because he is laying on his back on a damp bedsheet. it’s the coming down that makes him so horribly aware of small details.

the man is sitting on his bed. he hasn’t moved for a while, and wonwoo isn’t sure why. he could ask him, with stuttering chinese or accented english, but he doesn’t care enough to try, nor is he curious enough to find out.

wonwoo, with his arm lifted up, moves his fingers slowly, and of course it doesn’t mean anything. none of this matters, and the man will leave when he feels ready to, and wonwoo won’t see him to the door, even if that creates the risk of the other one stealing something. wonwoo doesn’t have much valuables lying around anyway, and the apartment is small. or maybe he has trust left in strangers, still.

after some time, the man does get up, pick his clothes up, dress and leave. he doesn’t give his number to wonwoo, not that he would contact him anyway, and his goodbye is a wave of his hand. wonwoo listens how his feet create a dull tapping sound on the flooring as he walks across his apartment, the sound of his door opening and closing, and if it had been quiet before, this is something more.

eventually, when his skin is dry and cold, he gets up.

wonwoo hums in the shower, water hot enough for his skin to turn pink, then he dresses in a t-shirt and shorts, drinks a whole bottle of water and changes his bedsheets. turning his music on, a pop rock band from the 80’s, trying to dance along to it but it doesn’t work. shrugging his shoulders, wonwoo decides it’s quite alright.

in the end, wonwoo ends up on his balcony. although small and quite cramped, it’s still his favourite spot in his apartment. the glass windows surrounding it protect him from the rain, and even if they’re covered in thousands of small droplets, it’s still seethrough. he walks to the railing, yanking the actual window part of the glass open.

wonwoo’s hair is wet already from the shower, not dripping wet but wet nevertheless, and he is very aware of how stupid it is to open the window. he isn’t sure why he does it, but then it’s raining inside his balcony again, and the raindrops land on his face, shoulders, chest. it’s cold. he suppresses a shiver.

he has to keep blinking his eyes rapidly, feeling stupid but it’s not like anyone is watching. wonwoo is alone, in the most mundane meaning of it all. although, maybe he isn’t actually alone.

opposite him, in the small space between the windowsill and opened window, the black cat is sitting. the buildings are close enough for wonwoo to see how it’s seated on the back of the sill so it doesn’t get wet. he wishes he could relate. his hands are resting on the railing, getting hit by raindrops, cold, pale, numb.

the cat looks at wonwoo and for a quick second he wonders if it knows. knows what? wonwoo isn’t too sure either, but something. he doesn’t know why it’s sitting there, there must be a reason after all. or maybe there isn’t—all of this is coincidental, none of this matters, the minutes do not stop. time is just a concept, and so on.

wonwoo wonders whether the red light shining from the opposite apartment lands on him too and casts pink shadows on his skin. he doubts it, because looking down to the backs of his hands, they look just dull. if he looks hard enough, maybe there’s a slight red tint.

he looks back up to the cat. the first thing he realizes is that it’s being moved away by someone, hands grabbing it gently. wonwoo lifts his eyes to the person, a young man looking down to the cat, hopefully gleaming. he can’t tell much through the rain and the fogged window of the other apartment.

wonwoo can tell it apart when the man looks at him though. it must look sort of silly, he standing there, voluntarily being soaked by the weather. he is so cold. he always is, sort of, and for his whole life he has been trying to warm up.

but wonwoo doesn’t move. his wet hair sticks to his forehead, lips trembling. the oddest forms of punishment.

the man is still looking at him, most likely funnily, before closing the window, the cat now inside. the light is still red.

then, that man from the opposite building, makes a vague hand motion at wonwoo, saying something along the lines of off you go. there’s no point in standing in the rain, even if he is technically inside. he can get warmed up, dry down, there’s no point in being cold, voluntarily.

  


**_the minutes don’t stop_ **

 

when wonwoo sleeps, he dreams, like most of the people. he’s a dreamer, he has dreams. nothing special about that.

he is in a bus. it’s a route he has taken before in korea, but he can’t recall the number of it, because he is sitting in the window seat, and the screen that shows the number is turned off. the window is smudged with dirt, and foggy with cold steam. it seems like it’s winter even though wonwoo can’t see any snow falling on the ground.

the other people in the bus are quiet, sitting back faced to him. wonwoo blinks quietly, no sound coming from the way his lashes brush against his undereyes, nothing falls off of them. no snowflakes or dust.

wonwoo turns his face back to the window, looking through it to the scenery. a brief panic flashes through his chest when the view is unfamiliar, not the streets and buildings he should see on the familiar route back to his home. it’s dark outside, it’s night, it’s winter, and wonwoo looks down to his lap to see his jeans have rips in them, and his arms are bare.

he wraps his arms around himself, shying away, leaning against the seat. the buildings seem familiar but in a distorted way, and he knows it’s wrong. wonwoo swallows, distressed.

he decides to press the stop button before he can end up somewhere strange and scary. quickly enough, the bus slows down and wonwoo gets up from his seat, hurrying to the opening doors, and steps outside. it’s cold. the bus doors close and then it’s driving away, leaving wonwoo to the dark winter weather with only his t-shirt and jeans. he doesn’t have shoes on.

wonwoo glances at the bus stop. there’s no seats, just the round sign in the end of a metal pole. the sign is baby blue and it has japanese on it. he knows he has seen it before but he can’t pinpoint, where. wonwoo steps closer to read the paper printed on it, it just tells him the schedule. another bus should arrive sooner or later but where will it end up?

wonwoo looks around. the asphalt is freezing his soles. behind the bus stop, there’s trees. even if he bends his head back and tries to look so far away, it seems like they never end.

he doesn’t know the way home. no matter if he goes to left or right, he can’t predict where he’ll end up. he can’t call his dad to pick him up, he is an adult, he doesn’t have a phone. a breeze passes by and wonwoo shivers.

the sky roars. and then rain, rain, rain and wonwoo is trembling.

  
**_6._ **  
  


wonwoo should be thankful that he even has the privilege of taking a year out from school and spending it abroad. no matter if he’s a disappointment of a son, he still has his parents to fund him such things.

running out of things to do, wonwoo is sitting on his balcony again. he’s sitting on a wooden chair, knees propped against his chin. he fiddles with his own fingers. bony and thin. the midday sun is shining through the rain, and perhaps there’s a rainbow somewhere, only if he’d bother to lift his head. if the light radiates through his skin to the bone, he thinks he might be okay.

imagine this; you have a childhood friend, you’ve known them since you were younger than five years old. as a child, you always played together, held hands, and when you’re eleven, they ask you to kiss them because kissing is a grown up thing to do. then, when you’re older you kiss them again and again and again, and you fall in love with them when you’re seventeen. you’ve never felt anything like that, most things are warm even if nothing is ever perfect. but you’re happy. and you have your soulmate by your side and you’re ready to grow up.

wonwoo imagines this, bitterly, but mostly with sadness knocking underneath his sternum.

if you’re jeon wonwoo, you have a childhood friend you’ve known since you were four years old. you kiss him when you’re ten even when the both of you are boys because it’s experimenting and it’s better to know how to kiss before your lips collide with a girl’s. if you’re wonwoo, you lose contact with your best friend after you go to different schools when you’re sixteen. if you’re wonwoo, you grow to understand that with friendship necessity is the mother of invention.

he sighs, quietly. it’s useless to mourn over such insignificant things, pointless what ifs that don’t change anything. the rain is a soft drizzle. there’s no logic in these things. none of this matters. none of this matters, wonwoo runs his thumb across the knuckles of his other hand. he keeps mentioning the weather because it’s constant and it’s present, but more importantly it’s meaningless.

the cat isn’t there, watching him, and the red light is turned off. wonwoo is oddly glad about it, how would it look like in the bright daylight? dimmed, washed out against the sunshine. nothing artificial or manmade can compare to the cruelty of nature.

and people will keep falling in love and from buildings and into the water. cats will keep staring at people and dogs will bark. lovers will hold each other and families will tear apart. none of that matters to him, it has nothing to do with wonwoo. it’s the insignificance of an individual, or something pretentious like that. it’s up to him whether he finds it comforting or scary.

wonwoo turns his hand around, running his thumb across the thin skin of his inner wrist. the vein bulges out.

the window part of the glass surrounding of his balcony is open, slightly parted, so the chilly air can fill the space. the opposite building is coloured in the apathetic shade of beige, so many windows, with curtains, without them, some have a plant on the windowsill, most don’t, some don’t have a sill at all.

through the noise of traffic above is interrupted by a loud creak of a window being pushed open. it alerts wonwoo, oddly enough, as if pulling him from underwater where everything is muffled and distant. he watches as the young man from the apartment right in front of him, the one with his precious black cat, struggles to open it wide.

it makes the corners of wonwoo’s mouth tug upwards in amusement.

it feels dream-like for a brief second. maybe half a second. the shortest moment, is the point, when their stares meet and that’s about it. like falling asleep, then jolting awake, but no fireworks, no rainbows or heartbeat picking up. wonwoo swallows, the other man opens the window wide, sticks his torso out.

it’s impolite to stare but wonwoo has stopped caring about those things a while ago. now, he looks out of windows like a child, eyes round, perhaps a bit more cynical than a kid’s.

the man opposite him lights a cigarette with a white lighter. it makes wonwoo almost chuckle, _i have a white lighter too, buddy, does it bring bad luck to you? are you, too, miserable when you shouldn’t be? are you lonely? who will you say goodbye to before you die?_

it’s pointless, ridiculous and absurd. wonwoo isn’t sure why and when did his thoughts spiral to such tornadoes. there isn’t calm without chaos, but he could deal with mostly calm. or maybe, maybe, maybe… maybe a part of him desires for the destructive side too. but whose doesn’t? whose doesn’t and who is pleased with the light blue sky, white fence, a dog and three children. many people. many people like him, bones and a heart.

wonwoo watches silently as the man looks down to the fall. wonwoo has counted the meters many times before. then, a stuttered curse, and the cigarette slips from the betweens of his fingers. it makes him let out a loud and weird laugh, before catching himself. the man snaps his gaze at wonwoo, before letting out a dumbfoundead laugh himself.

it’s then when wonwoo realizes that the curse was in korean. with a fleeting moment of impulsivity, he gets up and yanks his window properly open before sticking his upper body out as well to speak so the man hears him for sure.   

“are you korean?” he asks loudly, voice sounding odd in his own ears. the rain drizzles gently, he can barely feel it. that must be why it didn’t put out the cigarette.

the man looks startled for a second before shaking his head.

“i studied abroad there,” his voice is almost nasal, slurring with his accent. wonwoo can’t put a name on the feeling, relief, familiarity, weirdly emotional.

“really?” is all he can ask, voice quieter, heavier. the man laughs, nodding. his black hair is pushed back, rain like teardrops running down his cheeks.

“really,” he confirms. wonwoo nods. what else is there to say when he feels both like breaking into tears of relief over something he didn’t know he was worrying over and shutting the window and closing himself off. he settles with another short laugh.

“what’s your name?” the man asks. wonwoo licks his lower lip.

“i’m wonwoo,” he tells him, not even wavering.

“i’m junhui,” he speaks, he doesn’t waver either. the summer rain is warm.

  


**_the minutes don’t stop (2)_ **

 

the image of love where nothing hurts and everything is perfect; flowers bloom, birds sing, hands are held and lips are kissed, ghosts are a warm breeze of weather, angels are painted on the ceiling and the hand of god holds you close, and you never cry anymore.

the image of love where things are fine and sometimes not; mermaids are girls with sirenomelia and they sing you to sleep, you go down on your knees and pray and someone forgives you as long as you never forget, someone loves you if you love them back even more but it can’t be a competition, and then you’ll have a place forever, but only if you believe.

then, the image of love wonwoo knows;

 

**_7._ **

 

just because it rains, it doesn’t mean the weather is bad. weather is never bad, in the simplest form. wonwoo thinks people forget that more often than not. people aren’t good or bad, but people do good and bad things. wonwoo thinks people remember that, even if they don’t believe in it.

junhui’s cat’s name is bug. wonwoo pets her black fur, sitting on the floor of junhui’s kitchen. the walls are a muted yellow. it smells homely. junhui is cooking.

junhui stumbles over his words when he speaks but wonwoo doesn’t mind it at all. it’s better than what he can speak in chinese, after all. junhui breaks the silence wonwoo likes so much, but he thinks he likes that more, the way his voice drops and rises and creates tunes, mixing in with the rhythmic tapping of rain.

the rainy season should be over soon. wonwoo wonders how junhui’s voice will sound without the background noise of raindrops. there won’t be a big difference, most likely, the same deal as his heartbeat matching in with the drumming of them. without the pouring, his heart will still beat the same. simple as that.

it’s almost funny to find himself in a situation like that. wonwoo smiles gently at bug who looks at him with her greenish eyes. cats will always keep staring, dogs will bark.

“wonwoo,” junhui speaks softly and wonwoo turns his head towards his direction.

“can you get me my phone from the living room? i’m a bit busy,” he asks him, nodding to the pan he has in front of him. wonwoo replies with a nod, getting up from the floor.

in the living room, the window from where he can see to his own balcony, is open. the sunshine is falling inside. calm, calm, calm, just calm. the red light is turned off.

wonwoo grabs the phone from junhui’s couch. and then he returns to the kitchen. that’s about it, and the minutes don’t stop, but wonwoo doesn’t think he really minds it when junhui speaks calmly, eyes bright. there’s something ordinarily dazzling about him, in the kitchen, unstyled hair and a loose t-shirt.

junhui’s eyes catch his and even though he doesn’t say anything, wonwoo thinks he still, somehow, understands.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote the majority of this ages ago. hope you liked this MESS! leave a comment if you did, they make me real happy. heres my [twitter](https://twitter.com/minsgsol) if u wanna talk to me ! <3 thank u for reading friends


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